


What are friends for?

by spica_starson



Series: Geralt & Dandelion’s Adventures [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Book Spoilers, Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Takes Care of Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Missing Scene, Not the focus but its there, Reunions, Set in 'Blood of Elves', watch me fill the book tag with platonic goodness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24861502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spica_starson/pseuds/spica_starson
Summary: Guilt seemed to have washed over the poet as he sagged onto his chair, planting his face in his palms, sighing miserably. “He would’ve gotten to you and it would have been my fault. You and Ciri would’ve been—”Wouldn't you like to know how Geralt found out about Rience and what he did to Dandelion? How Dandelion reacted to meeting Geralt after finding out what happened near the Yaruga?This is an attempt to fill in that unwritten gap, along with some hurt/comfort between friends who almost lost each other without even knowing.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geralt & Dandelion’s Adventures [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804720
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59
Collections: Best Geralt





	What are friends for?

**Author's Note:**

> I posted my thought process of clearing up the timeline [here](https://spica-starson.tumblr.com/post/621644603175632896/thoughts-abt-geralt-dandelion-in-blood-of-elves) in case you're interested in understanding where and when exactly this takes place. 
> 
> Writing all this and re-reading the books made me realize just how loyal Dandelion actually is? And gosh- QwQ it makes my heart soar and ache at the same time. Also this is just my excuse to have Dandelion fuss over Geralt ;D (who knew there was a tag for it lmao)
> 
> Other than that, enjoy! Feedback/comments are welcomed <3

* * *

_'You traveled with him,' she said finally. 'Thanks to you he was not alone. You were a friend to him. You were with him.'_

_The bard lowered his eyes._

_'He didn't get much from it,' he muttered. 'He didn't get much from our friendship. He had little but trouble because of me. He constantly had to get me out of some scrape...help me...'_

**_(_ Andrzej Sapkowski _, Blood of Elves)_**

* * *

Music, loud and booming bounced around the poor acoustics of the tavern, the sound no doubt escaping the interior in no small amount.

Nursing the watered down mead in his mug, Geralt tucked himself further into the corner he’d claimed a while ago before the singing had gone especially rowdy, putting extra effort in blending in with the crowd with his dark hood pulled down, shadow casting over yellow eyes.

Another round of cheer erupted. He took another long sip.

Oxenfurt. Reeking of spices, scented wax, wine and the faintest whiff of old books. Music danced in the air, the palpable cheers of the drunk and (a very few) non-drunk even more prominent under the warm moonlight.

Truly the perfect town for scholars—not to mention a certain bard.

Geralt waited patiently until the current ballad was finished (a ballad he couldn’t recognise—something new the poet probably wrote during his time here) and continued drinking the sorry excuse of an alcohol he purposely ordered. 

They’ve had this dance far too many times for the other to not notice.

Rising on his feet as soon as the song ended, the witcher dropped a few coins on the table before calmly walking out, the claps and hollers of the crowd growing quieter as the warm breeze brushed against his face. He breathed in, letting the smell of roasted squid and roasted honey pork take over his senses for a bit.

If only he wasn’t keeping a low profile right now.

Not a moment later, a familiar beret with its heron’s feather poked into the dark corner of an alleyway he deemed safe enough, with a dark shape in his hand that resembled a lute; and on the owner’s face, a wide toothy smile.

Geralt accepted the open arms of the bard, hugging him tight.

“Greetings, old friend,” grinned Dandelion, clutching his arms even as he pulled away. “I can’t say I’m exaggerating when I say I’m truly glad to see you in one piece.”

Squeezing his friend’s shoulder in reply, knowing the bard will understand that the sentiment was mutual, Geralt smiled grimly. “I wish my visit was simply recreational, Dandelion; but you and I both know that isn’t the case.”

The joy in the poet’s eyes immediately dimmed, his smile slipping off into a tight-lipped frown. “Indeed I do,” muttered Dandelion, blue eyes darting to the side. “I have some very urgent news for you as well. Come.”

They swiftly walked down the dark pathways, passing twists and turns that the poet seemed to remember at heart before the sight of a familiar building entered his vision.

“You haven’t been evicted?” mused Geralt. Due to the nature of the bard to wander off into the wild at random intervals in his life, it has been hard for him to permanently acquire the same housing establishment for years on end, as he had complained to no end the last time it had happened.

The fact that many of the incidents had something to do with the poet’s inability to keep his pants in check probably played a huge role in them too.

Scoffing indignantly, Dandelion waved his hand at the small building. “Oh shush,” he tutted with a shake of his head, “I’ll have you know that the owner of this unit is a very good friend of mine. His son is currently studying at Oxenfurt—a student in my lectures as a matter of fact. We’ve come to an agreement some time in the last few years, don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

Geralt hummed in reply.

As they entered the house that had been claimed (temporarily) by the poet, he immediately took note of the improved interior, which was as eccentric and cozy as its owner. Expensive clothing was draped over the windows and surfaces. Paintings hung in several corners, vases filled with freshly picked flowers adorning the window sills and tables. The familiar scent of old wood and polishing oil filled his nostrils. 

It smelled- _felt_ like home.

The thought reeled him back into reality, his fear for Ciri tugging insistently against his chest. Before he could drown himself in worry, Geralt was brought out of his musings when a clink of porcelain cup rang in front of him. While he had been lost in his own thoughts, Dandelion had proved himself to be a proper host and prepared some tea for them both, the scent of chamomile mingling with the rest of the house.

“Before you ask,” said the poet as he sat down across from him on the coarse couch, taking a small sip from his cup. “Yes, I have been busy.

“When all you do is lecture or be lectured—with the usual dash of dilly-dallying if you know what I mean,” blond eyebrows wiggled, and Geralt suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, “you can’t help but notice the other aspects of finer things in life. The luxury of a consistent living, for example.”

“Didn’t ask, bard.”

“Now, now,” laughed Dandelion, setting his tea down on the table to avoid spilling it. “Don’t be so grumpy, my dear Witcher. We’ve got the time and privacy to freely converse this evening.

“Unless...?” he trailed off, blue eyes bore into his golden ones—nudging, searching, but most of all, concerned.

Geralt sighed.

“Ciri is safe. For now,” he gruffly said, looking to the side. Out of the corner of his eyes, he immediately noticed the bard stiffening at the mention of his ward.

Silently, he faced his friend head on. Waiting. 

“I think,” started Dandelion with some difficulties, fingers digging into his knees as he met Geralt’s questioning stare, a small strained smile marring his face, “it would not be wise to tell me too much about your Ciri at the present time, Geralt.”

_Thud, thud, thud-_

“What happened?” snapped the Witcher, a growl making itself known in the back of his throat, his patience rapidly thinning. Something bad had happened, he was sure of it now—something that even the chatterbox Dandelion was taking his sweet time to get to.

Geralt did not like this one bit. His fear for Ciri heightened, as well as his fear for-

“A certain individual was- _is_ looking for her,” the bard started out slowly as though explaining to a child, and Geralt fought to keep his frustration in check. Taking in the fidgeting hands of his friend, empty fingers usually occupied by his lute, the witcher sucked in a deep breath before signalling his friend to continue.

Dandelion visibly gulped, struggling to keep eye contact. “He sought me out and...confronted me, rather brutishly I might add—hoping I have the answers to your whereabout. More specifically: to Ciri’s.”

Before Geralt even thought to open his mouth, Dandelion cut in with a firm shake of his head: “No. He got nothing from me, Geralt. _Nothing_. Rest assured. But...if it weren’t for Yennefer...”

At the mention of Yennefer, Geralt flinched, but Dandelion’s reaction following it splashed cold water onto his aching heart.

Guilt seemed to have washed over the poet as he sagged onto his chair, planting his face in his palms, sighing miserably. “He would’ve gotten to you and it would have been my fault. You and Ciri would’ve been—”

His voice broke off, choked noises being held back by a mere string of will. The urge to comfort his friend floated to the surface of his conscience, but Geralt didn’t want to interrupt him. Not now. Not yet.

Holding back the many questions burning in the tip of his tongue, he stayed silent and waited again. After several long moments, Dandelion finally seemed to get his bearings back together, sending an apologetic smile at the witcher.

“I owe her my life yet again,” he chuckled, “if it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t be talking right now- but never mind that. We talked and exchanged some information, both important and unimportant. Said she had a greeting for me from Dijkstra himself.”

Eyebrow raised, he finally voiced his words for the first time since they started talking: “You work for him.” It wasn’t a question; rather, it was a confirmation of a long-building suspicion he had. The fact that Dandelion’s fame brought him to many places one could only dream of accessing, adding in the fact that the poet did have a penchant for wrangling information out of people’s hands with no trouble at all (most of the time), it was very likely that he would be hired as a spy by one organisation or another. Simple logic.

Dandelion coughed, looking sheepish. “With the right sum and only for the noble cause of patriotism, I assure you.”

“Let me guess—this Djikstra ordered you to ask about me.”

A grimace. “Afraid so.”

Silence gripped the room in a sudden hush, the sound of owls and other nocturnal creatures outside much louder in comparison. A sigh.

“Geralt,” tried Dandelion, leaning over the table to grasp his forearm, “I‘m well aware of your distaste towards the profession, but please believe me when I say that my loyalty lies with you first and foremost, before anyone else’s. Do you believe me?”

A beat. “I do,” said the witcher softly.

And Geralt knew he meant it. Of all the people in this bloody, upside down world, only a few people truly gained his trust. His mind immediately went to Yen, and Triss, Nenneke, his brothers back in Kaer Morhen. And Dandelion.

“I do believe you,” he repeated with more conviction, wrapping his hand around the bard’s tight before letting go. A smile blossomed on Dandelion, brightening his countenance. His shoulders seemed to be free of a certain burden, the tension seeping out of him in gentle waves.

“Good.”

And as the night went on, the two friends found themselves catching up on lost time: Geralt carefully wording anything that has to do with Ciri and instructing his friend on what not to say to anyone else, while Dandelion shared all he knew about Rience, and then some.

“Did you know them?”

“Hm?”

“The family of farmers is Sodden.”

“...Yes. They...helped reunite me with Ciri.”

“...I’m sorry.”

Geralt did not answer.

000

As dusk slowly approached, where both of them had deemed alcohol was very much needed several hours into their talk, Geralt broke the comfortable silence that had engulfed them both, had lulled them into a blanket of security that they knew didn’t truly exist.

“Were you badly hurt?” asked the Witcher quietly, his raspy voice grating his ears thanks to the wine Dandelion had brought out earlier. The question had been repeated over and over in his head, his need to know growing all the stronger the more they talked.

The poet didn’t answer for a long time, so long in fact that Geralt suspected he had fallen asleep. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But just before the witcher reached out to shake him, Dandelion answered, just as softly as Geralt had been.

“ _Pah_. A couple of bruises on my shoulders, nothing you need to worry about.”

Sometime along the night, the two of them had abandoned the chairs to spread out on the soft rug beneath them, Geralt’s head resting on the arm of the sofa behind him. Dandelion had his head cushioned within the crook of his arms on the low table, his free hand clutching his empty glass in a harsh grip.

Geralt did not pry.

His mouth opened wordlessly, apology and concern tying his tongue into knots. The troubadour clicked his tongue, no doubt reading through his silence, as he usually did.

“My dearest friend,” he said, amusement and wryness mixed together seamlessly, “contrary to popular belief, I am no child. I knew perfectly well what I’m getting myself into, and though your concern touches me deeply, it is not necessary, Geralt. Don’t even think about feeling guilty.”

Another bout of silence fell, fingers tapping onto the wine-less glass.

“Besides, it’s not like you spend your days saving my hide all the time,” mumbled the poet all of a sudden. This prompted Geralt to raise his eyebrow, looking pointedly at his friend as if to say: _Are you sure about that?_

Dandelion visibly rolled his eyes before burying his face in his arms, a breath of laughter echoing throughout the room. “Alright, alright—I yield. You’ve saved my sorry arse more than I can count...

“...Which is why I want to help you.”

“You’ve helped enough, Dandelion.”

Said poet shook his head firmly, straightening up from his slouched position to look at him more clearly. The alcohol seemed to make his gaze sharper, like a blade that refused to be sheathed. “I can help much more like this. You can’t stop me, for I am my own man. But more than that, I am your friend, Geralt. This is the least I can do.”

Instead of responding to that, the witcher interjected, “Didn’t Yen tell you to stay far away from this whole debacle?”

Amusement glinted in blue eyes, crinkling. “Changing topics, are we? To the lady of your very troubles, hm? Very well, let’s have it your way. Yes, that she did. But I’m done biding my time and not making much of a difference—a difference that actually matters to me.”

To that, Geralt had nothing to counter it with. As usual, the great poet had won his argument through sheer poeticism, true poetry. Something he could never rival him on, or hope to.

And so he reacted the only way he could: the Witcher took a big swig straight from the bottle, before slamming in none-too-gently onto the wooden table.

“Fine. But we do it my way.”

Right after, they jumped straight to planning; details upon details discussed meticulously, deep into the darkest of night right before the sun rose.

000

“She told me about the Yaruga.”

“Yen?”

“Yes. That you almost-” Dandelion bit his lip, fingers caressing the soft fibers of the rug under his palm. There were soots forming on its surface...it needed to be dusted soon.

“I did. I saw death herself before my eyes, and something far worse.”

“I see.”

If he were any other person, that would’ve been the end of this particular conversation, a topic he wasn’t too fond of either; but Geralt knew him too well. And so he waited, silently and patiently, as he had been doing a lot these past few hours.

“I’ve always known that it was possible for you to suddenly disappear off of the face of the earth,” said the bard, a strange, mellow undertone hanging onto his words like wax. “I’ve accepted it. Truly, I have. That’s the kind of life we both lead, after all. But...”

Deep within his bones, Geralt ached. He knew what his friend meant to say; memory fleeting to how the bard travelled from Vizima to Ellander after his nasty fight against the Strigga, just to check up on him and talk until what was an unacceptable time in the Temple. And a lot other times before that, when they would accidentally bump into each other and immediately took off together.

His travels with the bard might not have been without its own troubles; had not covered the hole left by Yennefer after they broke up, but Dandelion had been there even before that whole mess, a distraction and a reminder of other good things in life. The poet had clung to his side and stayed with him for those months of longing, and Geralt had rediscovered the joy of simply having a friend he could trust by his side. It will never replace the company and passion Yennefer had brought with her, but...he cherished it all the same. While the poet was babbler and a shameless flirt, getting into too much trouble than he was worth, he was also a good friend. A true friend.

Something quite hard to find these days.

A familiar warmth burned in his chest, along with a cold dread that comes with knowing some people would truly mourn you if you died. That those people care enough to want to see you live each day. To be happy just to see you alive and well.

“ _But..._ ” the poet’s mouth twisted painfully upwards, face scrunching up in a shadow of despair, “it never gets easy, does it?”

“I know.”

“I can imagine how you must feel right now for little Ciri, all alone in Elland-”

“Dandelion.”

The poet obediently shut his mouth.

000

Morning finally came, and blearily Geralt opened his heavily clogged eyelids as sunlight glared right against his sensitive eyeballs. Wincing, the witcher raised an arm to cover his face before noticing the thin blanket covering his shoulder.

Understanding dawned upon him as he lifted his head in search of the owner of the house, finding the spot the poet had claimed last night now vacant. As he laid back down, the headache pounding against his temple killing him from the inside out, he felt a presence returning into the room.

“Rough morning?” came a sing-song voice somewhere to his right, the familiar sound of glass against wood reminding him of how parched his throat is.

“Fuck off, bard,” growled the mutant, finger pressing the bridge of his nose in a sorry attempt to sooth away the migraine.

“I told you not to drink too much of it, you poor thing, and I seem to recall you saying: ‘Sod off and let me have this, you arse’ or something along those lines,” said Dandelion, a shit-eating grin no doubt planted there firmly on his face in pride at his insulting mimicry of his gravelly voice. Geralt wanted nothing more than to smack it out of the idiot.

But he was true about one thing—he brought this upon himself, and had no one but himself to blame. _Stupid guilt, stupid wallowing in despair,_ he thought.

Groaning, Geralt tried to sit up and reached for the glass of water his host “had so graciously given you”, only to miss his aim and almost spilled the water onto the table instead.

Thankfully, a hand shot out to right the full glass, carefully making sure he had a firm grip of it before letting go.

“Tsk. I had almost forgotten how careless you could be when drunk,” admonished the man sitting in front of him, no doubt ready to swoop in just in case another accident occurred. Annoyance prickled Geralt’s senses at having to be watched over like a vulnerable child, but not much later, his gratefulness won over. He would not be petty; especially now, when Dandelion had yet again provided him with a roof over his head and a pleasant company to drink with. Not after everything.

Glancing up at the man in question, the poet appeared to have cleaned himself up quite nicely, the smell of soap and perfume so strong he was surprised he hadn’t gagged from it. Moreover, there was no trace of drunkenness anywhere in sight.

“You‘re not as drunk as me,” grunted the witcher, squinting at him as his eyes readjusted to the new lighting. “How so? You drank at the very least half as much as I did.”

At this, the troubadour’s grin widened comically, every inch of his body shaking with laughter. “That, my friend, is because I heavily diluted my wine for every glass I drank last night. I highly suspect you don’t remember this, but I did tell you why: I have a lecture this late afternoon, which leaves me no choice but to be a lot more sober than you.”

_Ah, pox on it._

“As a good friend, I couldn’t leave you to drink by your lonesome, after all,” continued the poet, standing up and brushing out the wrinkles from his fancy robes. Dandelion wandered off into what he recognized as the kitchen area, disappearing out of sight.

“Though I am glad that you chose to wake up sooner than I expected,” he added loudly, the walls’ acoustics trapping the sound within the house, “because there are certain matters that we’ve yet to discuss. I had feared I’d have to write a letter for you to explain everything...”

Dropping onto the couch, Geralt watched as his friend brought a bowl of steaming porridge, along with another cup of fresh water. His stomach rumbled appreciatively.

“Thank you, Dandelion,” the witcher murmured as he accepted the offered food into his hands, the coolness of the beverage contrasting the warmth of the simple dish—a dish that he noticed Dandelion often relished in making during his rare visits, seeing as it was quick and easy, and most importantly, effective against a hangover.

“You’re most welcome,” waved away the poet. “Now, about that discussion...”

As the poet talked, Geralt tucked diligently into his food, sparing an ear to listen. The nausea slowly ebbed out of his systems as he devoured it, his witcher mutagens causing the process to go much faster than in regular humans. It was one of those rare moments he was glad that he wasn’t normal.

“—and you need a place to hide for the time being, correct?”

“Indeed.”

“And I suppose my humble abode would not be the best choice.”

“No. I refuse to trouble you more than I need to, friend.”

A small smirk creeped its way into the poet’s face, blue eyes crinkling faintly in wry amusement. “I was thinking more on the line of not wanting them to find you too easily because this would be their obvious first choice, but I can see why you’d wrongly think that instead.“

After much debate and consideration, they agreed that Geralt would be staying at a place belonging to a local brewer Dandelion was acquainted with. The old man had offered to grant a favour to Dandelion some time ago in his gratitude for bringing more people into his tavern, and the bard figured he might as well take it.

“Besides, he won’t know more than what I tell him,” shrugged the poet. “I’ll just say that an acquaintance will be needing lodging for a few weeks, nothing else required, and I can always offer my services again if he demands it.”

And that was that.

000

“—I’ll probably be back before nightfall, but I might also be whisked away to the usual night-out us professors fancy ourselves with from time to time, though I’ll try my best to slip away with some silly excuse they’d no doubt buy. Afterwards, I can take you to Goatbeard’s house and there-”

“Dandelion.”

The troubadour stopped his ramblings, a heap of books and tubes filled with new poetry and ballads no doubt written and compiled after the last ones were thrown into the Yaruga river in his arms. The lute he received from Toruviel all those years ago slung snugly across his back, like it had always belonged there (which yes, it definitely does).

“...Yes, Geralt?” prompted the man after several seconds of no other words from the witcher. “Would you like for me to repeat what I said? Alright then, so I-”

“No,” sighed Geralt, frustrated that he was struggling so much for something so simple.

But it wasn’t simple, not at all. Maybe it won’t ever be enough, but—feeling the curious but patient gaze of his friend soothing his jumbled nerves, he had to _try_. Emotions were never his strongest suit, something he deemed unnecessary in The Path and only bringing misery in turn. But if his experience with Ciri and Yen had taught him anything, it was that one should never underestimate the role of emotions in life, for yourself or others you care about.

Something he wished he’d learned to accept sooner in life.

Birds sang under the gentle beating of the sun, humming a tune that only nature could fathom. The cool summer breeze brushed against the walls, trinkets clinking against one another like bells on the mountain top as the bard waited.

“I want- to thank you,” the witcher finally said, taking extra care to lock his gaze onto his friend’s, wanting him to see just how much he meant it, to _understand_ \- “for everything.”

 _Not just for last night_ , he didn’t say.

Dandelion froze, as if held down by an invisible force, blue eyes wide as saucer as the full weight of Geralt’s words finally sunk in. His mouth formed a soundless ‘O’, chest rising and lowering gently in a single, deep breath.

Then his lips tugged in a faint smile; small, but genuine, shock melting away from his eyes into something more tender. Geralt felt the burden in his chest heave and lifted off at the sight.

“Of course, Geralt,” the poet grinned, open and free. “What are friends for?”


End file.
